


A Rational Man

by mightbeanasshole



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Body Image, Body Worship, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4917814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole/pseuds/mightbeanasshole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No -- there’s no one thing in the end that clues them in and it doesn’t happen all at once. Like most sinister things, what happens with Lawrence over the summer is an erosion, slow and natural-feeling. But like the opposite ends of a gradient, Lawrence at the beginning and Lawrence at the end might as well be an entirely different person.<br/>(Lawrence struggles with self worth and disordered eating. The rest of the team struggles with how best to help him.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PadaWinBaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PadaWinBaby/gifts).



> for [sirlarrhaus](http://tmblr.co/ms-Clrm08Fm5vH9eDvEEJog) based on xyr prompt/suggestion of Lawrence dealing with body issues

No -- there’s no one thing in the end that clues them in and it doesn’t happen all at once.

Like most sinister things, what happens with Lawrence over the summer is an erosion, slow and natural-feeling.

But like the opposite ends of a gradient, Lawrence at the beginning and Lawrence at the end might as well be an entirely different person.

\---

Lawrence himself couldn’t tell you, if asked, what kicked it off. Maybe it was more of an environment than it was any one thing.

Adjusting to the acquisition by the new company. Moving offices. A new fanbase.

Some things stayed the same: the flow of the days and nights and commutes and lunches together. The environment changed, though. The new offices came with new restaurants for lunch, a new gym for James and Spoole and Bruce and Matt and Kovic. Less time to make good choices because life seemed to be an endless stream of packing, unpacking, commuting, recording, eating, and falling into bed together.

\---

Kovic is the first to notice that Lawrence isn’t initiating anymore. 

It didn’t matter if they pair off or end up in some other combination, because by August, if someone wants Lawrence in bed they have to pull him there. And more often than not, he just abstains -- finding something else to do.

It had happened with Matt before (and even Bruce once) -- pulling away for a while, needing some space to sort something out. It was easy to feel oversexed when you shared your time -- _all_ your goddamn time -- with six other men. And Lawrence could get moody. Kovic chalks it up to needing space, and he doesn’t mention it to the others when he notices that more and more Lawrence is physically absent.

\---

In early September, Bruce wakes up in James’ bed, throat raw and head generally foggy. Under the weather. James convinces him to sleep in, insisting he can deliver the message to everyone else that Bruce will be late. So Bruce stays in bed until he hears three hollow impacts coming from another room. It’s enough to wake him up from dozing, and he pads out in search of the sound.

“Lawrence?”

Lawrence is breathing hard in the hallway in an undershirt, standing next to an exposed beam and rubbing the knuckles of one hand.

“Bruce -- shit -- I didn’t know anybody was home,” he says, dropping the hand quickly.

“You alright buddy?”

“Yeah, fuckin…” -- and Bruce can tell he’s searching for an excuse, masking any emotion from his voice. “Shitty morning, I guess.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No, ah, anyway I’m running late,” Lawrence says, moving to pass Bruce on the way back to his room.

“OK,” Bruce says, nodding. “Next time would you text me before you start punching walls?”

He means for it to sound concerned -- to sound like an offer to Lawrence for a venting partner -- but it must come out wrong because Lawrence doesn’t respond. They return to their rooms and Bruce hears Lawrence lock the front door behind him a few minutes later.

\---

It’s a week later.

“I wanna run Smolov again but I keep thinking about last time,” James says to Bruce, both of them setting up for a recording.

“Ugh, Christ,” Kovic says, spinning in his chair. “Can you even _afford_ all the food you’ll have to eat for that stupid squat program?”

“You ate an entire chicken empire last time,” Bruce says. “If you do it again, you can’t bitch about eating all the time.”

“Listen,” James says, cocking and waving his head as he falls into a sassier joke voice. “If you’re gonna benefit from _all dat mass,_ you gotta make sacrifices. Can’t build no quads on no protein bars.”

“You were eating 24 fucking hours a day,” Kovic says, hitching an eyebrow.

“Can’t stop won’t stop eating,” James says, snapping.

There’s an abrupt noise as Lawrence drops his headphones onto the desk. He strides out of the office without a word.

James slings a look at Bruce as if to say _Fuckin’ moody Lawrence, huh? --_ but Bruce is already getting up to follow Lawrence down the hall.

Bruce finally catches up to him outside the building, trotting to match Lawrence’s pace.

“Fuckin’ gym talk,” Bruce says, trying to stay neutral, to feel Lawrence out. “We takin’ a break?”

“Yeah _I_ am,” Lawrence says.

“Where we headed?”

“I don’t know,” Lawrence says, pumping his legs, almost speedwalking. “Couple laps around the building, I guess.”

“It’s like 200 degrees out here, Lawrence,” Bruce says. Lawrence doesn’t react. “You know, they have gyms with air conditionings for this.”

Lawrence pulls a face at him, eyebrows raised, mouth a straight line.

“OK well,” Bruce says, falling back as Lawrence begins to round the corner of the building. “Don’t forget to hydrate.”

\---

By October, it’s at a fever pitch and Lawrence can’t look at his actions close enough to figure out where it started. His day is made up entirely of food and self in varying degrees -- and thinking about it makes him furious. He should be stronger (and smarter) than this. He’s not goddamned 20 years old.

But the longer he’s lived with the cycle of self loathing, the more sophisticated it has gotten.

When he’d been a teenager, he punished himself with blades -- dull and sharp, lifted from a utility drawer or pulled apart from a safety razor. Now he does things that don’t leave such obvious marks: pounding his knuckles against the spots in the apartment that won’t be damaged, forcing himself to walk in the heat, withholding food until he feels sick to his stomach.

It doesn’t make a dent in the way he feels -- and even with a drastic change in how he’s eating, it doesn’t seem to change how he looks.

He’s the least desirable of them all -- no nice musculature, no nice proportions, no sweet narrow prettiness like Joel or cut firm planes like James. There’s no redeeming aspect of him, and if he didn’t goddamned work with them, he knows the rest of them wouldn't give him the time of day.

So it’s life in the background -- drinking black coffee to cut the fatigue and hunger as he fasts through the morning, listening to the endless talk about numbers. Fucking numbers, the bane of his existence. Squat numbers, a new deadlift PR, and new fastest mile time. Five pounds of fat lost or two pounds of muscle gained. Goddamned body fat percentage. How many calories they were all eating a day, how the macros broke down.

The complaints about eating enough to keep up with what they were doing in the gym were the last straw.

If there had ever been an opportunity for Lawrence to join them in lifting, he’d missed it. He’s been left so far behind that he’d look too foolish to join them. Everyone in the gym would single him out. Who’s the fucking fat weirdo hanging out with those Youtube guys? Lawrence can’t face it.

He takes a little solace in the fact that Joel has never taken up with them in the gym -- but Joel has never been fat, either. 

Joel didn’t grow up with a system of self worth that was based not on how talented he was or what grades he made but instead a number -- his weight, something that had always felt vaguely out of his own control when he was a kid. By the time he was making his own decisions about what he ate and how he spent his time, Lawrence felt too locked into old habits, anyway, to change much.

Yeah, he’d grown up. Yeah, he’d reached a weight that the BMI scale said wasn’t dangerous. But you don’t just leave that mentality behind.

When things got stressful, it was always there waiting for Lawrence.

The cycle of measuring, fasting, eventually failing, and punishing himself for it was as familiar to Lawrence as a childhood home.

\---

“You think Lawrence is OK?” Adam asks.

He and Bruce are alone in Adam’s apartment, basking a little in the afterglow. Adam expects Bruce to make some comment about how shitty his pillow talk skills are -- but instead he finds Bruce propping himself up on one arm and looking at Adam seriously.

“No, I don’t,” Bruce says, seriously. “And I have no fucking idea what to do about it. He won’t talk to me.”

“Did something happen?” Adam asks. He hadn’t expected Bruce to have any idea what he was talking about -- and suddenly they’re both realizing how desperately they need to compare notes with the rest of the team.

\---

Mid-October becomes a time of quiet observation. Of trying to understand what’s bothering Lawrence. In the end, it’s Matt that puts two and two together.

He pulls Bruce aside one day with a raised eyebrow and a tilt of his chin.

“Talk to you for a second?”

Bruce just nods and they find a quiet spot down the hall.

“It’s a body thing with Lawrence,” Matt says.

Lawrence had been keeping to himself, but Matt had a talent for making himself unobtrusive. He’d approached Lawrence -- asked if he could stay in his room for the night, tailing him around the apartment the next day, around work, skipping the gym, spending a second night.

Attention from Matt, Bruce thinks, is rare enough that anyone on the receiving end didn’t tend to question it -- though he’d never say that out loud to Matt.

“So I just, you know. Watched a little,” Matt says. He breaks eye contact, shakes his head. “He’s not really eating enough. And he was like a different person when you guys started to get ready to head to work out.”

“I thought he didn’t give a fuck,” Bruce says, not disagreeing but not understanding. “I mean, Joel doesn’t do anything either.”

Matt shrugs, hitching his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Matt says. “I guess maybe he gives a fuck now.”

\---

They don’t tell Spoole or Joel. Lawrence is too intuitive -- he’ll notice if everyone is on the same page. But Kovic and Bruce and James and Matt quit the numbers talk at work. They make an effort to eat meals together -- sharing food, suggesting food. They make an effort to include Lawrence in everything, touching him more, just being with him more.

Lawrence still steals away. Still comes in with black coffee and not much else.

In a last-ditch effort, Kovic moves the three bathroom scales that they own between the seven of them, pushing them under beds where they can be forgotten.

\---

Lawrence isn’t stupid. He confronts Matt about it.

“Did somebody hide the fucking scales?”

He can’t tell if Matt looks guilty or neutral. His damned poker face is too good.

“Adam said something about replacing the batteries.”

“In _both_ scales in this apartment?” Lawrence says, hitching an eyebrow. “Is that a process that takes multiple days?”

“Probably put them somewhere and got distracted,” Matt says, already moving to end the conversation. _Definitely guilty_ , Lawrence thinks.

“Matt. What’s going on with you guys right now?”

“What’s going on with _you_?” Bruce says, stepping out of James’ room and into the hall. It’s rare to see Bruce frustrated, and yet here he is -- Bruce posturing up, stepping a little too close to Lawrence, insisting that he look Bruce in the face. Matt disappears.

“I’m working through some shit,” Lawrence says, not backing down. “Doesn’t bother you when Peake does it.”

“Peake doesn’t do it for months at a time, Lawrence,” Bruce says. “We’re really trying here -- but if you won’t talk to anybody, what can we do?”

“ _You’re_ trying?” Lawrence says. “You all are doing just fine. Please -- just let me hate myself in peace without hiding my shit and dragging me to lunch. I’ll get it out of my system soon -- promise.”

“The fuck do you hate yourself for?”

Lawrence narrows his eyes and tilts his head as if Bruce has asked the dumbest question Lawrence has heard all year.

“You want the long version or the Cliff’s Notes edition, Bruce?”

Bruce rolls his eyes -- can’t stop himself -- and Lawrence holds up a hand to cut him off as Bruce opens his mouth to respond.

“No, seriously, it’s fine,” Lawrence says. “Whatever you guys think you’re doing to help, you can stop. It’s not a big deal. I’m gonna get over it. It’s just been -- y’know -- moving and all the changes. I’m stressed. We’re all stressed.”

“So come to the gym with us and blow off some steam, Lawrence,” Bruce says, exasperated -- and Lawrence knows Bruce’s temper is flaring, knows they’re both barreling towards that territory where they’ll start saying shit they don’t mean. “But this teenage angst bullshit with you skipping meals and punching walls? Come on.”

“No, I know,” Lawrence says. “Listen -- I hate myself. I’m fully on the same page with you here.”

“That’s not what I’m saying --”

“I get it Bruce -- the pity party is over. We’re good, ok? We’re fine.”

“This is ridiculous Lawrence --”

“I agree.”

And he’s shut down and moving on and pushing past Bruce to his room.

\---

Bruce has fucked it up and now Lawrence will probably never open up to any of them. He tells James and Adam about the confrontation over dinner.

“Yeah but… fuck that,” James says.

“Fuck that?” Adam asks, hitching an eyebrow.

“Yeah, you’re being too logical about it,” James says through a mouth full of burrito. “Like. You can’t treat this like it makes any sense. It’s not gonna make any fucking sense.”

“Fucking therapist Willems over here,” Adam says.

“And then you’re getting pissed off at Lawrence because he’s not being logical,” James says, ignoring Adam.

“But Lawrence is Mister fucking Logic,” Bruce says.

James just shakes his head and looks down at his plate of food, not stopping as he tears through the meal at breakneck speed.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” James says. “You can’t get mad at him about how he feels.”

“You’re so _wise_ , James,” Adam says, a little sarcasm slipping in.

“Well why don’t _you_ fucking talk to him,” Bruce says.

“No problem,” James says. “I’ll do it when we get home.”


	2. Chapter 2

****

Lawrence is at the small desk in his room when James barges in. 

James doesn’t knock -- doesn’t say anything -- just pushes the door open, shuts it behind him, and flops down onto Lawrence’s bed. 

“Lawrence, we should talk,” he says, kicking off his shoes and staring at the ceiling. Lawrence suppresses a sigh and swivels in his chair. 

“What is it?” Lawrence asks. 

“The thing with Bruce a few hours ago,” James says. “You know what I’m talking about.” 

Lawrence stops suppressing the sigh. James wants to read him the riot act too? So be it. He takes off his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose.

“Right,” Lawrence says. “You’ve got some sage advice for me, too?” 

James snorts, still not looking at Lawrence. 

“Not really,” he admits. “I mean, you know what you’re doing and you know it makes zero sense -- right?” 

“Pretty much,” Lawrence agrees. He puts the glasses back on. 

James flips to his stomach on the bed, peering at Lawrence. 

“Lawrence. You deserve to eat. If you want to do something different with your body -- fine,” James says, keeping the statements light, somehow managing to make the whole thing sound casual. “But you can’t do something different with your body while you actively hate yourself.” 

“And if I don’t know how not to hate myself?” 

James rolls his eyes -- an expression that somehow takes on more significance with James, who seems to be half eyeballs sometimes. 

“Lawrence. Come here.” 

“I’m not in the mood for this,” Lawrence says, letting irritation slip into his voice.

James’ voice goes sing-song in response as he posts up with one hand and waves Lawrence over with the other.

“I’m not gonna suck your dick Lawrence -- just come sit with me for a second. Please?” 

They share a tense moment before Lawrence caves, pushing up from his chair and then sitting softly on the edge of his own bed. As soon as he settles down, James slumps into his lap, laying with his head across Lawrence’s thighs, gazing up at him. 

“You know pretty much anyone worth a shit hates themselves, right?” James says, hitching one eyebrow. 

“You hate yourself?” Lawrence says, frowning skeptical down at him. 

“Uhh you’ve worked with me long enough to know I’m basically _the worst_ ,” James says. “I try not to think about it.” 

“You’re not the worst. Don’t be a moron.” 

“I’m not?” James says. “Please -- tell me how I’m not the worst.” 

“Well you’re objectively beautiful, for one,” Lawrence says. 

“OK, obviously,” James says, wobbling his head in Lawrence’s lap. 

“You’re probably the funniest out of all of us --”

“Joel is the funniest, but I appreciate that --” 

“I don’t know James,” Lawrence says, his voice going a little desperate. “You’re great. You’re far from being the worst.” 

“And I’m great in bed, clearly,” James says, nodding. 

“Clearly,” Lawrence says, clipped.

“And what about Bruce?” James says. “What would you say to Bruce if he told you he hated himself?” 

“Uhh, I’d say he’s hilarious? Generous. Objectively attractive.” 

“Good in the sack, don’t forget,” James says, looking up seriously. 

“Yeah, I mean… of course.” 

“So is there anyone in this relationship you’d look at and just think ‘Man, what a fucking horrible loser,’” James asks. 

“Absolutely not,” Lawrence says. 

“Is there really anyone you spend time on who you’d say that about?”

Lawrence thinks through his mental catalogue of friends and family.

“I guess not,” Lawrence says. 

“Do you think _any_ of us feel that way about you, Lawrence?” James asks. 

“I don’t know,” Lawrence says, bristling immediately. “What does it matter? At the end of the day, I have to deal with not liking myself.” 

“Do you?” James says, smiling now, turning to prop himself on an elbow. 

“James --” 

“No, fuck off Lawrence, I’m serious,” James says. “You have _six_ people who are pretty much obsessed with you.” 

“Yeah but --”

“Yeah but bullshit,” James interrupts. “Yeah, but? You could say the word in the middle of the day and there are six dudes who would suck your dick if you said the words.” 

“I mean…” 

“I don’t know about Peake, he’s a wild card -- but there are… _at least_ five dudes who would suck your dick. Probably in public.” 

Lawrence doesn’t know what to say. 

“Lawrence, you’re a fucking catch dude.” 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

“Right. Yes. The _years_ we’ve all spent together have been a really complicated joke.” 

“That’s not really… I mean --” 

“We care about you, Lawrence,” James says. “Bruce and Kovic are out of their fucking minds over this -- and I don’t say that to make you feel guilty. They don’t know how to help you and it’s making them crazy.” 

“So they sent you?” 

“Nobody sent me, Jesus,” James says. “I noticed what was going on but I thought you were gonna work through it. You’ve done it before. I don’t fucking know, Lawrence, I don’t want to get up in your grill about shit like this. I don’t like it when people do that to me.” 

“What would anyone need to _get up in your grill about_ , James?”

Only then does James break eye contact. Something on Lawrence’s wall is suddenly intensely interesting to him, and he doesn’t stop staring in that direction as he begins to talk again.

“If I tell you something, it doesn’t leave this room, ok?” James says. 

“Goes without saying,” Lawrence says. James looks at him again. 

“I do the same shit,” James says, his voice lapsing into a rare serious tone. “I’ve done it for as long as I can remember.” 

“You’re not fat,” Lawrence says without thinking.

“No, I’m not,” James says. “You of all people should know it’s not about being fucking fat. You’re not fat either, Lawrence.”

“I feel gigantic,” Lawrence admits. 

“Right,” James says. “But you know you’re not. Your clothes aren’t gigantic. You don’t weigh some unreasonable number. It’s not about what you really are or how you really look.” 

Lawrence nods after a moment. 

“I was probably never fat,” James continues. “But you don’t have to be fat to have no fucking clue how you actually look to other people. So I worked out and tried to be strong and hoped for the best. I thought having abs would make me feel like I looked _right_ or something -- but it doesn’t change.” 

“You’re like… zero percent body fat,” Lawrence says. 

“Still hate myself!” James says with a smile, lapsing out of the serious tone as quickly as he had fallen into it. 

“I cannot _fathom_ why, James,” Lawrence says. 

“Uhh because I’m not a moron?” James suggests. “Being a human is disgusting and we’re all horrible.”

Lawrence has to puff a laugh at that.

“I’ve never met a person who didn’t hate themself -- deep down -- unless they were at like a third grade reading level,” James says. “So -- like -- yeah you can’t _fathom_ why I hate myself. You’re fucking Clark Kent and I can’t _fathom_ why you hate _your_ self, Lawrence -- but I’m also not stupid enough to think I can talk you out of it.” 

“I’m not Clark Kent,” Lawrence says, petulant. 

James slings him a look like he’s being completely ridiculous.

“You realize I feel privileged to bone you,” James says. “And to be honest? I’m kind of pissed off you’ve been so fucked up lately because you never want anybody to touch you.” 

“It’s… complicated, James.” 

“Yeah? And I’ve got a complicated boner for your self-loathing ass,” James says through a smile. “So I’m going to need you to not starve yourself and start keeping it real -- and I’m willing to work with you on that if it means you don’t just fucking hide from us again.” 

“James --” 

James interrupts him, sitting up now, taking him by the shoulders.

“You have to eat, dumbass,” James says, still smiling -- and Lawrence laughs hard at the absurdity of it, the obviousness of the statement, the thing he wouldn’t admit to himself and the thing that nobody was willing to call him out on -- and after a moment James is laughing too. 

“Fuck you, James,” Lawrence says, still laughing, shaking his head.

“I swear to Christ I’ve never met such a dumb fucking nerd,” James says fondly, dropping Lawrence’s shoulders. 

“This is the weirdest pep talk I’ve ever gotten.” 

“Look -- if you want to talk about body recomposition, I’m your resource --”

“Yes, James, you’re a veritable font of information --” 

“No, fuck you, I’m serious -- if you want to do something different, we’ll talk about it. But not until numbers and shit stop freaking you out,” James says. “If you want to come to the gym, come to the gym. I never pressured you about it because -- shocker here, Lawrence -- you don’t _need_ to look or be any different than you are right now. But if it’s something you want to do, I want you there.” 

“All disordered bullshit aside, I could objectively look better,” Lawrence says. 

“No,” James says. “You couldn’t. You could look different, but you couldn’t look _better_.”

“I disagree.” 

“Well I fucking disagree,” James says, laying a hand across Lawrence’s thigh. “And if you don’t want to go back to seducing your own hand in your lonely little one-bedroom apartment, I’m gonna guess my opinion is a little more important here.”

Lawrence lets his eyes rest on a nearby wall. It’s too much for him to try and take a compliment at face value right now. 

“Lawrence. You’re like _surreal_ good looking. Gain weight, lose weight -- whatever -- you are someone I _wanna get with_ ,” James says, his voice dropping into a jokey tone that still somehow makes it clear that he’s not in fact joking. “And if I wasn’t already with you, I’d be figuring out how to get with you.” 

“It’s nice of you to say --”

“It’s not fucking nice,” James clarifies. “I like fucking you, Lawrence. I like spending time with you. I think about you when you’re not around. We _all do._ We give a fuck.” 

They’re simple statements and they still have Lawrence blinking back tears. 

“Just let me do the after school special thing for a second, ok Lawrence?” James asks. 

Lawrence nods. 

“You already know this shit but it helps to hear it out loud. Eating isn’t being weak. Food isn’t a reward. Yeah -- we both have a complicated relationship with it -- but if you don’t let yourself eat when you’re hungry, you basically just feel like shit all the time. Am I right?”

Lawrence nods. 

“I care about you, Lawrence. And at the risk of sounding gay, I _love_ your body.” 

“James you routinely have sex with six men, I don’t think--”

James interrupts him, speaking louder and clearer.

**“At the risk of sounding gay, I love your body, Lawrence,”** James says, and Lawrence is laughing again. “I know I can’t solve this for you, just like you can’t solve my shit. But I’m also not gonna pretend like I don’t notice it when you’re doing something really shitty to yourself. I’m gonna hold you accountable for eating enough food until you’re not so stressed out and self-loathing. And when you get really fucking stressed again? Come and tell me.” 

Lawrence nods. 

“I’m serious -- see how chill this is? It doesn’t have to be some dramatic after-school special shit,” James says. “Like, I _get it,_ ok. But you can’t fuck yourself over like this anymore.” 

“Thanks, James.” 

“Thanks nothing,” James says -- and Lawrence thinks that more positive talk is coming, some new pleading for Lawrence to take care of himself -- but instead James has leaned into him and he catches Lawrence’s mouth in a kiss. And as the kiss continues, James begins to push him back, to lay Lawrence down against his own bed. 

“I’m basically just trying to get you back in bed with us,” James says with a crooked smile when they finally break, Lawrence flat against the bed and James leaning over him. “With _me_ specifically, let’s be real.”

“James --” 

James grabs him by the ass with a stupid smile on his face, squeezing him hard.

“Gotta take care of this precious cargo, knowmasayin?” 

“That’s the goofiest line I’ve heard in a long time,” Lawrence says, rolling his eyes. But James already has hands at work under the hem of Lawrence’s t-shirt, stroking the skin there. Lawrence sucks in his gut, tensing the muscles of his abdomen -- and James fixes him with a look. 

“You don’t have to do that.” 

“It just still feels fucked up,” Lawrence says. 

“I won’t touch you if you don’t want to be touched, Lawrence,” James says, his hands going still on Lawrence’s belly. “But fuck, man. You don’t know how much I’ve missed you.” 

Lawrence doesn’t know what to say -- feels like he wants to disappear for a moment, not sure with what to do with the embarrassing feeling of James’ hands on the part of him he’s the most ashamed of. 

“I love your stomach,” James says. “I love every inch of you.”

And as if to offer proof of concept, James hitches the hem of Lawrence’s t-shirt up a few inches and lowers his mouth to the smooth skin there. He presses his lips into Lawrence’s stomach for a beat and then moves a few inches to the side, pressing another kiss there -- and another, and another -- and slowly Lawrence begins to feel less tense about it. His body is already responding to the attention, to the weight of James there between his legs. 

“I wouldn’t change a thing about you, Lawrence,” James says, looking up, slipping hands further under his shirt. “Your stomach… your chest.” 

Under Lawrence’s shirt, fingertips find one of his nipples, teasing him -- and Lawrence breaks, letting loose a quiet, low moan. 

“Can I?” James asks, working the t-shirt up. Lawrence nods, hitching himself up as James takes the shirt off of him and then letting his body fall back. 

“You’re perfect,” James says, smiling and admiring him. Lawrence resists the urge to flip over or move, resists the sudden surge of anxiety that the lights are on and bright and someone is seeing him exactly as he is. 

“You’re perfect because you’re _you_ but…” James trails a hand from the middle of Lawrence’s navel to the middle of his chest. “You’re perfect because you just _are_.” 

“You don’t have to say anything --” 

“Yeah, but fuck that,” James says, rolling his eyes and bringing his face down again, laying a kiss against Lawrence’s collar bone. “I missed this whole situation. You don’t even know.” 

“I’m sorry I’ve been so fucked up about this --”

James shushes him. 

“There’s nobody like you, Lawrence,” James says in between long kisses against Lawrence’s skin. “We could be in a relationship with 20 other people and I’d still be pissed off if you didn’t want me anymore.” 

“I _do_ want you, James,” Lawrence says. 

“Them’s the magic words,” James says in a parody of a smooth Casanova voice.

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“And you like it,” James says before sucking hard against the skin of Lawrence’s chest -- both of them knowing that he’s leaving marks now and Lawrence not caring. It feels too good for him to care, and as his blood surges, any vestiges of being worried about how he looks are momentarily gone. 

It will come back -- of course it will. The insecurities. The uncertainness. 

One session of attention from James won’t solve anything in the long term. They both know that. 

But it’s easier to believe that Lawrence is wanted -- that he is acceptable and valuable and worthy of the relationship that he is in -- when James is here, touching him, mouthing him, praising him.

“Fuck, James,” Lawrence says, rolling his hips up off the bed and into the man on top of him as James licks across one of his nipples. 

“Next time you feel like you hate yourself,” James says, pressing his thumbs hard into Lawrence’s hips, “just tell me and I’ll blow you.”

“Think that’ll help?” Lawrence says, puffing a laugh. 

“I don’t actually know -- but at least somebody gets to cum outta the deal.” 

Lawrence laughs, shaking his head against the mattress, and James moves to unbuckle the belt at Lawrence’s waist. 

“Maybe I should’ve saved the real talk and gone straight to this,” James says, snaking a hand into Lawrence’s jeans. 

“The real talk was good,” Lawrence says. James grasps his hardening cock through the fabric of his boxer-briefs. “This is better.” 

“Yeah, I read about this in _Psychology Today,_ ” James says, squeezing around Lawrence’s base. “Peer reviewed and everything.” 

Lawrence moans at the pressure and James begins to drag Lawrence’s jeans down with his free hand.

“This is the part where you go ‘you can peer review my cock, James,’” James says in an exaggerated impression of Lawrence. 

“Fuck,” Lawrence says as James mouths him through the garment, breathing hot against his erection. “You’re doing a fine job without any instruction from me.” 

“Great, good,” James says, pretending to be annoyed even as he palms Lawrence. “I’ll just carry the burden of all this comedy across my own back. Typical James, picking up the slack.” 

And Lawrence can’t even manage a comeback as James hooks fingertips into his boxers, sliding them down and off his hips. 

They drop the jokes, then -- or, at least James drops the jokes. He’s too occupied with Lawrence’s skin -- the gentle give of his thighs, the skin that stretches tighter over his hips, the most sensitive parts of his cock -- reaching every inch he can with lips and hot breath, enjoying every hum and quiet obscenity it earns him from Lawrence. 

When he’s kissed everything he can reach -- then and only then -- James finally licks a wet stripe from Lawrence’s base to his tip, and Lawrence lets out a shuddering breath. 

“ _Fuck_ , James. I did miss this.” 

James continues on, running the tip of his tongue over everything now, dragging moans from Lawrence and sighing into his skin as Lawrence finally reaches down to run his fingers through James’ hair. James does everything he can think of -- tracing patterns on Lawrence’s shaft, sucking marks into his hips, biting the skin of his thighs softly until Lawrence is no longer breathing right. 

And finally -- only after James is satisfied that he’s fully communicated to Lawrence how much he savors every minute of this -- finally James holds him by the base and lowers his hot mouth onto the head of Lawrence’s cock. 

“Jesus,” Lawrence says, breathless up on the bed. “Jesus Christ.” 

Even now, James doesn’t establish a rhythm. He’s licking down against Lawrence’s shaft with an obscene noise one minute and pulling off to lay a chaste, dry kiss against the underside of his base the next. James swirls his tongue over Lawrence’s slit, squeezes him with a slicked hand. 

“Please, James -- holy shit --”

He won’t make Lawrence whine for it -- save that for another time. Instead, James presses his mouth down further onto Lawrence’s cock in response, willing his throat to relax as he swallows down. James takes his full length, grinding down, pressing his nose into the smooth skin of Lawrence’s belly, until finally his own body reacts, his throat spasming in the beginning of a gag against Lawrence’s dick. James holds Lawrence by the base as he pulls off, takes a breath, and sinks down again almost immediately. 

“Christ that’s incredible,” Lawrence mumbles. 

James sucks against his entire length once -- twice, three times, Lawrence loses count as the beginnings of an orgasm burn in the bottom of his stomach -- before finally it’s too much for James to take without gagging hard, the hand coming back and slowly pumping his cock as James sits back to breathe. Lawrence almost whimpers at the loss of the hot mouth on him.

“Is this what you wanted, Lawrence?” 

“Fuck yes,” Lawrence says, his hands returning to James’ scalp, curling into his close-cropped hair. James never misses a beat as he strokes and twists his wet palm against Lawrence’s cock.

“Are you ready to cum?” 

“Please,” Lawrence says, his voice lapsing just a little -- the closest to a beg that Lawrence will allow himself to get. “Please, James.” 

And James is ready for it too -- ready to give Lawrence the release he needs, to give him a moment without stress and the burdens he’s been carrying -- to show him with hands and mouth how much Lawrence means to him. 

He sinks down around Lawrence’s cock again, stroking against his base with one hand and the rest with a practiced mouth. The rhythm he builds is slow -- but still, it is a rhythm -- and Lawrence’s moans almost sound outraged now, going a little ragged and desperate -- and as James sinks and strokes just a bit faster each time, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks softly against Lawrence’s cock, the man under him can’t resist the urge to thrust slightly-shaking hips up off the mattress -- just a little, as if Lawrence’s body isn’t under his control anymore. 

James doesn’t mind. He reaches his free hand to squeeze Lawrence’s ass, as if giving the man under him permission to move, and he hums as he continues to lick and pump. 

“Fuck,” Lawrence mutters, stroking a hand through James’ hair, wanting to praise James’ beautiful, talented mouth and everything he could do with it, but unable to even make himself form the words now as his hips hitch, as he fucks softly into James’ mouth and his palm. 

In reality, it doesn’t take long -- but the moment stretches out for Lawrence, everything seeming to slow down and blossom outwards as James makes him cum, as his body gives in finally to pleasure and release, and Lawrence can feel himself throbbing, cumming down James’ throat as James sinks down deep again, squeezing around his base, an even pressure and friction helping Lawrence ride the orgasm as long as he can -- and it is a release beyond release, a moment of complete trust, of complete visceral pleasure -- untainted by insecurity and doubt and unhappiness with himself. 

It is just the two of them: together in Lawrence’s bedroom, a quiet moment of selfless affection, a physical reminder that Lawrence is not alone in this world, not isolated in his struggles, and that even if there is no one else to shoulder the burden, there are at least the men who care about Lawrence, who are willing to do whatever it is they can to help. 

Lawrence isn’t sure how long he’s laid flat on his back, jeans around his ankles, gaze thrown towards the ceiling -- but James shakes him from his reverie, flopping down hard next to Lawrence on the bed, smiling. 

“Shit, James,” Lawrence says, still a little breathless. 

“I’m tellin’ ya,” James says. “This is a legitimate psychological strategy.”

“I do hate myself a little less,” Lawrence admits. 

“Yeah?” James says, breaking into an open-mouthed grin. 

“I mean, the shit we talked about was good too,” Lawrence says. 

“Yeah but I mean… the head was better,” James says, hitching one eyebrow and dropping into a joking voice. 

“Yeah. The head was better.” 

And they’re both laughing, then, as James pulls him into a kiss. 


End file.
